


Smoke and Whispers

by doxian



Series: Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Domestic, F/F, Gangs, Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013, Hong Kong, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you hear the Witch was visiting tonight," Dave mutters behind you. Of course you know. You've only been sneaking around the city for her for, oh, the last year.</p><p>HSWC bonus round fill in response to <a href="http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/5337.html?thread=1798873#cmt1798873http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/5337.html?thread=1798873#cmt1798873">a prompt</a> about the Kowloon Walled City in Hong Kong, during the 1950s while it was run by the triads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any historical inaccuracies, but I felt morally obligated to fill the one prompt in the round that featured my hometown, especially since it involved such an interesting place and time period.
> 
> Roxy is 18 here, with Dave a few years younger than her and the Condesce at least ten years older than her.
> 
> Also includes mentions of death and blood.

You're buying egg waffles from your favorite street vendor when your little brother finds you. 

"Hey, Rox, mom wants us to throw out that broken piece of shit, come help," he pulls on your sleeve despite standing right up next to you, jostling the small crowd of other customers around you.

You give the vendor a coin and take the brown, wonderfully warm paper bag from her.

"Aww, you can't carry 'em up by yourself, Davey?" you say, and pinch one of his cheeks as you both walk back towards your building.

"Ergh, stop that," he swats your hand away, almost knocking off the dumb pair of aviator sunglasses he always wears. You're not sure exactly where he'd scavenged them from, but he's been attached to them ever since. 

You muss up his hair in response and he swipes a piece of waffle. The two of you continue to elbow each other companionably throughout your walk through the cramped lanes, earning yourselves several dirty looks from some of the older city inhabitants.

You take a short cut by ducking down a nearby alleyway, covering your head with your hands against the drips from the water pipes, since neither of you ever bothers to carry an umbrella. It doesn't really help.

Dave conveniently decides that this is the ideal time to start chit-chatting. 

"Did you hear the Witch was visiting tonight," he mutters behind you. "Wonder if she's ever had anyone killed in our building. She could've, you never know, the stairwells are darker than a demon's asshole, there could be blood splatters all over that shit, you could never tell."

He's talking about the woman leader of the 14K triads. Nobody actually knows her real name, but she's earned a number of nicknames - the Condesce, the Batterwitch. "Witch" because there's something sinister about a woman managing to become top dog of a crime syndicate, and there are whispers that she's successfully cursed her enemies. 

"Batter" because there are also whispers that she can really tuck into a good dish of brown sugar cake. 

You already know she's visiting. Of course you know. You've only been sneaking around the city for her for, oh, the last year at least. She visits every few months or so - it usually falls to one of her underlings to check on things here, but from time to time she prefers doing it personally. She's a strong believer in taking things into one's own hands.

She'll be expecting a report from you tonight, too.

"Yeah, yeah, Dave, I bet she's killed people in our rooms before we moved in too, they're probably haunted, _ooowoooh_ ," you say lackadaisically, rolling your eyes even though he can't see you.

You make it to the end of the alleyway and turn a corner, shaking the water from your hair and stuffing the rest of the waffle in your mouth, crumpling up the bag and tossing it to the already dirty, damp ground.

Dave complains loudly that he wanted more of your snack and you laugh at him as you pull the steel door to your building back and start climbing the stairs.

Originally, the Batterwitch had forced you into your position by way of one of her ham-handed bodyguards, threatening harm against your loved ones if you didn't cooperate. You had been reluctant at first, resentful, but eventually you had grew to enjoy the extra money. And you'd found you had a particular talent for creeping around unnoticed. Maybe it's because you're a teenager and therefore unassuming, but when you peek in the windows of the one of the 14K's many bases of operations or tail one of her men through the cramped city streets, there are times when you feel practically invisible.

Plus, you'd heard she'd somehow taken notice of you and asked for you specifically. Just your excellent luck, you guess.

She occasionally tasks you with ferreting out potential betrayals, but usually she's content with hearing about everyone's movements and who they're speaking to. It's a fine enough deal, as long as you or any of your family members doesn't end up getting killed.

That won't happen so long as you're careful.

You reach your family's dimly lit rooms and put your hands on your hips. 

"So, where's the shit that needs dumping?" you ask. Dave points to the two broken wooden chairs in one corner.

"That's it? Jeez, dude, you could've moved these yourself easy," you grumble, moving to gather the pieces of one up. 

"Yeah, but any excuse to hang out with you, sis, I just enjoy your company sooo much," he deadpans, and it's one of those things where you can't tell if he's being ironic or being sincere or pretending to joke about the sincerity to make it ironic, or what. 

He moves to pick up the other one and your eyes flick for a second to a spot on the floor - you'd found a space under the linoelum which you'd been using as your hiding spot. She gives you gifts sometimes, the Batterwitch, snuck over to you by her lackeys - delicate jade pendants or decorative porcelain figures - useless baubles that you immediately sell, rotating through different pawn shops, since keeping them would be both pointless and dangerous. For the head of an organized criminal group she can be surprisingly, moronically indiscreet. (You'd kept the pearl hairpin, though, meticulously hidden. You'd liked that too much to get rid of it.)

Dave coasts over that particular part of the floor and you quietly let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

Your brother forgets about the Witch for now and starts rambling on about something stupid his BFF John had recently done. The two of you lug the pieces of broken wood through the narrow corridors, and then up the stairs leading to the roof. You try to ignore your neighbor screaming at her kids which you can hear easily through the thin walls. 

As you emerge on the roof you smile and shield your eyes against the sunlight - you always enjoy being up here, feeling the open air and looking out onto the rest of the city. You drag your rubbish to the heap of old mattresses, cracked plant pots, broken televisions and other busted electronics at the opposite end of the roof, almost getting a chair leg caught on a line of laundry someone had hung out to dry.

You stay up on the roof for a while, just talking and doing nothing in particular until your mom comes up to look for you. Dave thankfully doesn't mention the Witch again.

\--

You have to stay awake and wait until the rest of your family is asleep before you leave to meet with the Condesce, which is harder than it sounds. Dave tosses and turns for at least an hour after he goes to bed, and you swear your dad literally sleeps with one eye open. You lay on your back on the top bunk of your and Dave's bunk bed, idly watching the frantic spin of your slightly squeaky ceiling fan that really doesn't do much to cool down the room at the onset of summer.

Finally, everyone's breathing evens out and you can get up. You make your way through the dark streets, sticking to the shadows, not wanting to be seen, until you reach the building that she always stays at and that the rest if the city's inhabitants typically give a wide berth.

You enter, earning a few looks from the other gang members but not getting stopped since the ones you see already recognize you. Finally you find yourself outside of the room she regularly commandeers as her own. 

As you push the door open you're accosted by the pungent, cloying smell of smoke mixed with expensive perfume - flowery, overly sweet shit that at first struck you as an overly girlish choice, but that you've since come to associate with her.

You shut the door swiftly behind you, glaring at the creak it makes. She's sitting in an armchair, legs crossed in red patent leather pumps. She's wearing her signature bright pink qipao - the slit rising dangerously high up her thigh and the dress itself glittering with added-on sequins and beads. The ensemble is just as obnoxiously garish and offensive to the senses as her scent.

You stand in front of her with your chin up and your nose in the air. Her hair is already out of its bun and tumbling wildly down her shoulders. She smiles at you, shark's teeth set in an anticipatory, self-satisfied grin. She'd be pretty if it weren't for the too-big mouth and nose, the stupid stylistic affectations, but she doesn't need to care about being pretty or elegant when she's possibly the deadliest person you've ever met.

Maybe you should feel intimidated or somehow less-than, standing in your cheap cotton dress and plastic slippers and knobby knees, but you don't. You really don't.

She sucks on her cigarette in its long holder and exhales.

"Hello, pretty girl," she beckons you over with one hand. "So what do you have for me this time?"

You snort at her.

"I'm not your pretty girl, old lady," you say, but step closer anyway.

You relax into her arms even as you spitefully curl your fingers into her out-of-control hair, and meet her bright, made-up lips with your own.


End file.
